


The Perilous Catch

by BobTheDoctor27



Series: Myths and Legacy [2]
Category: Bionicle
Genre: Mahri Nui, Voya Nui
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:15:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24078091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BobTheDoctor27/pseuds/BobTheDoctor27
Summary: The Perilous Catch is a canon-compliant, supplemental story to the Dark Times Saga, taking place in the Myths and Legacy project.The story features the Matoran of Voya Nui paying tribute to their fallen brethren by casting off what few possessions they can spare into the Cape of No Hope. Unbeknownst to them, however, this ritual sustains the citizens of Mahri Nui, who cling yet to life in the depths of The Pit.
Series: Myths and Legacy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1519037
Kudos: 13





	The Perilous Catch

Somber mists obscured the waters of Voya Nui Bay as Piruk emerged from the brackish swampland of the Green Belt. Panting for breath, the Le-Matoran scout paused against a large boulder to recompose himself. 

A Visorak wandering too far from the Ring of Ice had forced him to take an unfamiliar path, throwing him completely off-course on his journey to meet his fellow Matoran. Owing to the trepidatious terrain surrounding the Black Rocks of Mount Valmai, he’d spent the past hour circling back around the entire route, through the woodland and into less-traveled territory, making sure to avoid the Hikaki and Kofo-Jaga that stalked the region. 

As he continued up a steep incline, Piruk leaped over a vast, artificial hole that somebody had dug into the slope, the purpose for which was impossible to divine. Offering neither shelter from the elements nor access to minerals worth extracting, the fissure was like a giant scar in the hillside, one of a great many such unnatural features in the forest and yet only a passing curiosity for the Le-Matoran as he hurried along his way. Eying the treacherous coastal rock formations before him, he was reminded what dismal progress the Matoran had made to reshape their island in the past 600 years. 

At last entering the Desert of Sorrows, Piruk hurriedly reacquainted himself with the untrodden sand of the great alkaline flats, home to the Rock Ussal and wild Burnak. Clusters of great stones and bleached rock formations now appeared more regularly as the dust gradually turned to soil, hardening in clumps of gray dirt until finally it felt as though he were standing on solid ground again.

Scuttling onwards with the likeness of a timid Ussal Crab, Piruk stared at the remote gray cliffs surrounding Needle Rock, which were now finally in sight. Many of his Matoran comrades had traveled to that region with similar intentions: to hunt and fight, to scavenge and settle, but also to launch desperate flares and cast off on daring voyages across the churning waves of the Endless Ocean. Of course, he knew better than to hold out hope for miraculous salvation, a lesson that had been taught to him by the harsh climes of Voya Nui coupled with the misfortune of sharing a village with Kazi, a renowned pessimist. 

Quickening his pace, Piruk tried to focus once more on the grim duty he was undertaking. Still, he could not help but lament the reality that salvation would never come to the Matoran of Voya Nui. Sometimes he dreamt of climbing along those peaks and seeing a distant Airship, though no vessels had been seen since before the cataclysm. Shuddering at the memory, he clutched the small wooden box he carried tight between his Shredder Claws. 

As Garan was so fond of saying, the Matoran must learn to become their own heroes, for answers did not simply fall from the sky...

Further along the Cape of No Hope, on the northwest sandbar of Voya Nui, a procession of Matoran gazed out at the bleak horizon. Light drops of rain belted the shale of the cove and merged with the waves, which lacked their usual turbulent energy. The clouds drifted so low that even the ever-present Mount Valmai was reduced to a faint silhouette against the melancholy backdrop. The gingery glow of light coming from the coastal cabins offered little illumination beneath the relentless shades of gray.

Together, the Matoran comprised a dour workforce, though many of their number were haggard and stooped, some sporting artificial limbs to replace injured digits. Their collective past punctuated by countless tragedies and misfortunes, they struggled to cling to the lives they had fought so hopelessly to live.

Some days it felt as though the very universe itself was determined to oppose them.

“No sign of Velika?” mused Kazi, searching around for the missing inventor.

“I invited him,” murmured Balta with an eye on the crashing waves. “But he said something about a Blade Burrower’s whiskers and sent me on my way.”

“He never comes,” snapped Dalu, something about her tone suggesting that was the end of the discussion.

Kazi looked as though he had more to say but, resorting to the wisdom of many Ko-Matoran scholars before him, felt it best to say nothing at all. 

Joining the gathering at long last, Piruk scurried across the beach, anxiously filing his Shredder Claws together. Sand and dirt covered his emerald armor, which he hurriedly tried to brush off as he approached. 

Clearing his throat, Garan stepped forward and turned to address the villagers. Although the denizens of Voya Nui had been without a leader since the Great Cataclysm, this Onu-Matoran was the closest thing any of them knew to a Turaga, always speaking up for those without a voice and providing wisdom in the darkest of times. When he spoke the crowd fell silent.

“Happy Naming Day,” he announced in a tone devoid of the warmth so frequently attached to the pleasantry. 

A dull murmur resonated amongst the villagers in solemn recognition. Every year the Matoran of Voya Nui gathered on this day, paying tribute to their fallen brethren, their starved neighbors and their dearly departed leader, Turaga Jovan, who had lost his life in Mata Nui’s darkest hour. While a great many Matoran made offerings throughout the year, all villagers were expected to partake in the annual ceremony. After all, Naming Day was hardly a cause for celebration without their Turaga. 

Once silence had returned, Garan reached into his pack and revealed a bundle of Fikou Metal pieces, tied with a neat ribbon. Subconsciously, the other Matoran followed suit, each producing their own tributes and gazing begrudgingly out at the ocean.

“We gather here today to honor those we have lost; to remember our brothers and sisters who met their ends beneath these waves. Today, we sacrifice what little excess we have in their memory, in the hopes we can appease the ravenous seas and quell their legendary hunger so that they may rest.”

Around the beach, Matoran grumbled in reluctant agreement, their expressions as bleak and rueful as the coastal mists. Several years ago, a Ta-Matoran named Dezalk had offered a broken Fire Talon, which had become something of a local scandal and earned him the endless scorn of his peers. Since then, nobody had contributed damaged goods to the ceremony. Sacrifices made in honor of their drowned brethren were to be genuine, no matter the scarcity of supplies. 

“Join me now,” instructed Garan, placing his offering in the wooden rowing boat moored in the shale. “Let us pay tribute to the departed and enjoy what little time we have together, for the fallen would wish us to celebrate their lives.”

A leaden silence hung over the bay as the villagers began filling the boat with their gifts: parcels of Burnak Metal, weapons, armor, odd pieces of equipment, even a modest Kanohi made in Balta’s forge. Together, the tributes were surrendered by the stern-faced villagers then silently cast off into the waters with a gentle kick from Dalu’s armored heel. The current lapped at the hull of the small vessel, pulling it further and further out into the bay while the Matoran watched. 

When it at last began to be thrown and rocked by the waves, Garan unlimbered his Pulse Bolt Launchers, took aim and fired a burst of purple energy, striking the boat square in the bow. As the water poured in and the shower of splinters settled, the tributes were at long last claimed by the dark waters of the Endless Ocean.

“Kind of beautiful... in a way,” remarked Kazi pitifully, thinking of the countless artifacts he had surrendered to the waves over the years. 

On the cusp of the unknown, the Matoran of Voya Nui clung to their old ways. But, even now, many among the crowd watched their sinking supplies and wondered how long until tradition heralded their downfall. 

As the final planks of wood disappeared beneath the waves, the Matoran tried not to think too deeply of their rumbling bellies. 

Caught in the eddies of the underwater current, the fractured boat slowly started to descend, drifting further away from the shimmering surface and into the darkness. At varying speeds, the contents spilled out of the ruptured hull, sinking into the unfathomable depths, where they would doubtlessly remain forever.

The wreckage began to disperse, drifting into the depths and carried by the currents. Within moments, it would be bound for the bottom of the trench, adorning the ocean floor with all the wreckage of civilization discarded over the centuries. 

Which meant there was only a brief window of opportunity. 

Matoran sprung forth from their positions amongst the coral, shaking off blankets of sediment and kelp used to hide themselves amidst the craggy foliage. Moving as one, they surged forward, swimming for the sinking supplies before the Takea sharks returned to their hunting grounds. Last year their old friends on the island above had cast their tributes off at a most inopportune moment as a shawl of squid had returned from hunting in the depths, leaving them no opportunity at all to collect the supplies that allowed their meager village to thrive beneath the waves.

Shooting out to the head of the group, a Ga-Matoran named Idris reached the first of the items, catching a Kanohi mask descending more rapidly than any other item. Conventionally, such a prize would be the most valuable catch of the year, but such opportunities were few and far between, prompting Idris to swim further, grabbing hold of the nearest metal fragment before turning back, satisfied that she had secured two of the more valuable prizes.

Next on the scene was Gar, flanked by a pair of guardsmen. Ever-curious, the Onu-Matoran lingered between a scrap of armor and a Wind Stone before tucking both into his pack. Feeling the safety of their growing numbers, the Matoran snatched up as many fistfuls of the items as they could before Kyrehx and Sarda arrived.

The Matoran swam as quickly as they dared, but their movements did not go unnoticed. No sooner had Gar retrieved a dim Lightstone, he caught sight of a shape shifting in the abyss beneath his feet. Wordlessly, he threw up a fist and charged a shot from his shoulder-mounted Air Launcher, firing a bolt of orange energy at his target but instead watching it shrink off into the distance. Slowing to a halt, Sarda moved into position and readied a shot from his own Air Launcher. Behind him, a small legion of his fellow warriors followed suit, providing cover while the more capable swimmers continued to grab what supplies they could. 

Shots rang out, their mute movements subdued by the inky black waters, casting a dull series of ginger lights into the depths, revealing a glimpse of the enemy lurking in the shadows.

Venom Eels.

By far the most relentless of the ocean predators that surrounded their home, the creatures were responsible for more attacks on the Matoran than any other Rahi to date. Some of their brightest researchers had studied the geology of the ridge on which the underwater Matoran city now stood. For centuries now, it had been their firm belief that Mahri Nui had crushed the ancestral breeding grounds of the species when it sank on that fateful day almost 600 years ago. It was an indignity the creatures of the Pit could never seem to forget, chief among which were the Venom Eels.

Their positions revealed, the creatures moved, advancing as one mighty shawl. They shot through the water, their spineless bodies wriggling with desperate anticipation, possessing the likeness of small flags flapping in a vicious wind current. 

Making a final attempt to grab whatever else was within reach, Idris and her team of civilian swimmers began their swim back to the city, knowing full well that the Venom Eels would cut off their escape the second they were discovered, forfeiting whatever else sank from the surface. They moved quickly, each knowing all too well what overreaching beyond that one final tribute would cost them. 

Remaining behind, the warriors of Mahri Nui stood their ground, each firing a round of compressed air at the approaching swarm before they too turned and swam back to the safety of the Mahri Nui grounds.

But the Venom Eels had bodies built for speed. Entirely organic in composition, their snaking organic forms secreted a lubricating oil, which enabled them to slither through the water like Bog Snakes on dry land. They would not be out-swam.

Which was why the Matoran carried Electro Blades. Developed by a Vo-Matoran inventor, the weapons had become standard issue for any Matoran who ventured beyond the confines of the city’s air bubble, be they explorers, sentries, hunters or shepherds. Sharp enough to penetrate the carapace of even the hardiest Keras, the blades delivered powerful electric charge to anything on the receiving end of their metal, stunning a Rahi long enough for the wielder to beat a hasty retreat. Unfortunately, it seemed centuries of exposure had caused the Venom Eels in particular to develop a resistance to the voltage, meaning the effects were becoming less and less effective.

That was what the pointy end was for.

As the distance closed between predator and prey, the flanking Matoran took up arms, hacking and slicing as they kicked with their feet. Sarda bristled as his weapon made contact with the writhing body of the nearest eel, causing it to let out a high-pitched screech that made him cringe. 

Still more of the creatures advanced, bombarding the warriors as they neared the Fields of Air. Some of the more capable swimmers had already made their way back down to the safety of the Hydruka farms and were now within firing range of the underwater village’s defenses. From the safety of the giant bubble that encompassed Mahri Nui, Air Launchers were fired into the Black Water, allowing Gar and his cohorts enough cover to swim.

Without fear for their own safety, however, the Venom Eels continued to advance, throwing themselves at the Matoran taking up the rear, eager to pick off at least one of their numbers for trespassing in their waters. As it so happened, they appeared to be converging around a Po-Matoran, a warrior named Dekar, who was dragging a wounded Ba-Matoran in one arm and lagging behind. Far from a confident swimmer on the best of days, Dekar had been a laborer for many years on land and was built for endurance rather than speed. 

Signalling to Sarda, Gar veered left and bombarded the water around the struggling Matoran with shots from his Air Launcher, striking a great number of the slithering creatures in rapid succession. With eels clinging to his joints like common leeches, Dekar gritted his teeth and persevered, making one final push for the safety of the village with the Ba-Matoran in tow. 

Anticipating that the hunt was drawing to a close, many of the more mature Venom Eels hung back, knowing from experience the sensation of entering Mahri Nui and preferring their chances elsewhere. But Venom Eels, like a great many aquatic predators, were born hungry. A swarm of younger eels began to pick up speed as Sarda and Gar tore frantically through the water, swimming the final few bio across the Fields of Air and swatting the Airweed frantically as they paddled, creating bubbles to ward off their pursuers. 

When at last they reached the safety of the village, outstretched hands extended to pull them inside. Breaking through the surface of the bubble, Gar and his Ta-Matoran cohort gasped for breath, feeling the oxygen enter their burning lungs and realizing only then several Venom Eels clung to them, squealing and shriveling as the water that sustained them dripped off of their withering bodies. 

Hissing from the other side of the Air Bubble, the remaining Venom Eels slowly began to dissipate, though a majority of their number continued to float in position, waiting patiently for the Matoran to step back into the water. Another series of Solidified Air projectiles ensured that they did not stay long.

Returning to his feet and plucking the last of the parasites from his armor, Gar assessed the surviving items that now lay in the village square with weary eyes, thankful that no lives had been lost in their retrieval. Just under a third of the sinking boat’s contents had been intercepted, the rest of Mata Nui’s Gifts were lost to the depths. By all accounts, the most lucrative Naming Day in several years judging by the volume of artifacts retrieved.

There was a modest assortment of items in their possession, with Idris’ team still adding their catches to the pile. The heavier supplies had, of course, sank quicker and the divers had prioritized the precious metals. A Mask of Aging adorned the stack, which would no doubt mean the difference between life and death for any Matoran with a damaged Kanohi at these depths. 

Armor and weapons were also valuable commodities and it pleased the Matoran to see so many different types laid out before them. With a finite supply of oxygen in the Mahri Nui Air Bubble, metalwork was virtually impossible, which frustrated the local Fe-Matoran to no end. The citizens of the sunken city wore a mismatch of second or even third-hand armor. Gar himself was missing shin and shoulderpads, a predicament shared by a good majority of his neighbors. 

However, as was often the case, many of the treasures from the world above had not survived the journey, even though they had been retrieved. Several electronic devices sat broken in the heap, their circuitry fried by water damage. Similarly, a small pot of powder had been cracked open, allowing water to leak in and reducing its contents to a thick sludge. 

“There’s some junk in here,” murmured Sarda, plucking up a green Amaja Stone with crooked triangular features. “I didn’t realize the Great Spirit was a geologist.” 

“It’s not all bad,” retorted Idris optimistically, holding up an intact Air Bladder that had been dragged down by the damp cloth it had been wrapped in. “It’s been years since I’ve held one of these!”

“And look at this,” remarked Defilak as he pried a respectable toolbox free from the jumble and shook it gently, hearing the rattle of screws as though it were a novelty. “Finally some new equipment for my projects!”

“Perhaps now you can fix my leaking roof,” chuckled Kyrehx, elbowing her friend playfully in the chest.

Harder to please, Gar and Sarda exchanged uncertain glances. The unspoken truth was that there weren’t enough supplies here to last another year. On average, at least two Kanohi were broken every six months and most of the weapons salvaged today were ceremonial, prized for their appearance and coloring over strength or practicality. Hungry eyes began to descend over the scraps of armor.

“What I wouldn’t give for a bowl or a whetstone,” remarked one Su-Matoran, gazing remorsefully out at the open expanse, watching as the ocean claimed the sinking scraps, guarded by Venom Eels that knew nothing of their value. 

Stoic as ever, Dekar approached the gathering and examined the spoils of their shared effort, remarking cracked Water Shards and a meager sheet of Fikou Metal. His features lightened as he laid eyes upon something half-hidden beneath an armor shell: a small wooden trunk easily mistaken for a piece of the boat. This had escaped Gar’s notice until now but the ornate pattern on its lid made his eyes widen. 

“Open it,” he blurted out louder than he would have liked, drawing more attention.

Without pausing to nod, Dekar snapped the lock and gently eased open the artifact’s hinges. Gathering around in eager anticipation, the villagers lurched forward to get a first look at the mysterious final item. With bated breath, they watched the Po-Matoran open the hinges and reveal the contents.

“Is that… a water canteen?” sighed a Bo-Matoran peering over Dekar’s shoulder.

Collectively, the Matoran of Mahri Nui groaned in dismay at the bitter irony, with Defilak swooping in to examine the metalwork closer. 

Their mood soured by disappointment, the villagers returned to the square, waiting for this month’s Chief of the Matoran Council to make her judgment. Traditionally, armor and weapons recovered from the annual tribute would hang in the Matoran Council Chamber and be distributed fairly amongst the villagers when needed. Relics from the surface were sacred above all other offerings, as though Mata Nui still wished them to hold out hope each Naming Day. 

All around the village stood crumbling buildings made of rotten wood and lumpy cement. Yellowing Lightstones illuminated the faded village and all its shortcomings. There were Rahi pens held together with no screws, crafting shops where brittle weapons were carved against the metal hull of a ship instead of an anvil, and curtains in dwellings made from discolored sailcloth. Many Matoran even fashioned hammocks out of fishing nets here in Mahri Nui, for such was the extent of their desperation. 

None of the essentials they had been holding out for had arrived. Perhaps Mata Nui was displeased with them...

But Gar’s melancholy ran deeper than simple dissatisfaction with the supplies that had arrived. Every year, however fanciful, the Matoran dreamed of the Naming Day Tribute heralding the means to their escape. Every so often, a box of seeds or a casket of building materials would reach them, but freedom from the waters of the Pit would forever elude them. Today presented no hope for salvation, and so the miserable denizens of Mahri Nui were condemned to another year on the edge of the incomprehensible. 

But… perhaps it didn’t have to be like that.

Finally feeling as though he had sufficiently caught his breath, Gar smiled to himself. Sunken though they may be, he took comfort knowing the villagers of Mahri Nui had not been forgotten. The means to their escape from The Pit would not drift down from the heavens - it would come from within the hearts of the Matoran themselves, their irrepressible desire to be free. When the forces of destiny aligned and Mata Nui chose to smile upon their village once more, they would have their hard-fought freedom. 

Even in the darkest waters of The Pit, even when tested to the point of breaking, the Matoran had their faith in a better tomorrow.


End file.
